


Eleven hours and Eight Minutes

by sweet_dreams



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Airplanes, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Childhood Trauma, Hollywood, M/M, Medicine, Sexual Tension, Slash, Stanford University
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-23
Updated: 2013-09-11
Packaged: 2017-12-24 10:43:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/939034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweet_dreams/pseuds/sweet_dreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One Dr. John Watson must endure an eleven hour and eight minute plane ride next to one pompous handsome git. Quite sadly said git, unbeknownst to John, is a world famous actor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The beginning

**Author's Note:**

> It has been an entire year since I have written anything creative! My poor brain is quite sadly still stuck on writing academic jargon! Thus my creative writing is a bit rusty. So please excuse all mistakes! This story is not beta'd, anyone interested please let me know!
> 
> All comments are welcome!
> 
> Please note: I own nothing but my plot, everything else belongs to the BBC!

Part I: The beginning.

 

John Watson was late for his flight; who knew that leaving his flat a mere 10 minutes behind his intended departure could cause such havoc. Really, he should have known better having lived in London for the better part of five years. However some lessons would never be learnt, he thought, as he made a mad dash through the ridiculously busy terminal. One would think that there was a celebrity amongst the crowd, what with all the random high-pitched screaming and camera flashes. 

He couldn’t quite make out what they were saying, but then again he was more intent on pushing and shoving his way through the crowd to his check in desk. 

Beads of perspiration were sliding down his face by the time he made it to the other side of the airport. 

“Please tell me I haven’t missed my check in time” he said breathlessly “I didn’t realize that there would be so many people in Heathrow…bloody nightmare getting in.”

The woman behind the desk looked up and smiled tightly, her lips pursed in a thin line. 

“Yes sir, there is some chaos today. Some movie star is…” 

The rest of her sentence was swallowed up by the sudden roaring of high pitched squeals. He couldn’t help but cover his ears with his hands. What the bloody hell was going on? What on earth were they all chanting? He thought he heard “S.H. S.H. SH.!!” But what sort of star would be called that? 

John thought he caught a fleeting glimpse of dark curly hair and sunglasses. However, before he could crane his neck to unravel the enigma before him a gentle pat on his arm brought his attention back to the woman at the desk. 

She pointed to his boarding card and then to his bag and then in the direction of departure. He nodded, mouthing a silent thank you before rushing off in the opposite direction to the chants. 

Thank god he wouldn’t have to deal with any of that once he was inside the departure lounge. Not to mention the plane. What a nightmare. He felt a bit sorry for the poor star. Who would ever want to be mixed up in all that nonsense when you could have a real career, like medicine? 

*************************

 

“Sir, this way please. Seat 3B. ” A young woman with the name of Charlotte Ming purred, as she motioned for him to follow. 

John couldn’t help the little whoosh of awe that overcame him as he walked through the aisle, peering at the seats in amazement. He had never seen such seats in his life-they seemed to be able to stretch and morph into some sort of single bed…not to mention the ample legroom.

He had never travelled in such luxury, not even on his 22 hour plane ride to Australia (although it wasn’t non-stop, he was able to stop off in Malaysia for a day). 

John absently wondered whether he had really made an impression on that one professor from Stanford University, during his talk at the International conference on Stem Cells and Regenerative medicine at UCL. I mean why else would they have shoved him in first class? Either that or they had an abundance of money. John Watson wasn’t bad off himself but he was just starting out, merely a rookie in the field of medicine. Whatever he did earn he usually used to pay off his student loan.

“Can I take your Jacket for you?” The voice of Charlotte Ming interjected his thoughts; her voice laced with disdain as she eyed him. 

John couldn’t help but inwardly cringe, becoming suddenly all too aware of what he was wearing- shabby denim jacket, mustard chords and tattered sleeping top. In his haste to catch the flight he had worn whatever he could find. Now, staring down at his interesting choice of apparel, he felt out of place. Everyone around him seemed to be impeccably dressed, he thought he spied a few branded items-Louis Vuitton bag, Hermes scarf and longenes watch.

He didn’t belong in this high life style.

“No… I think I can man...” 

His sentence died in his throat as a deep baritone voice cut through and he looked up to find himself suddenly staring at a pair of green eyes, high cheekbones and a mop of curly hair. 

His first thought was handsome.

“What are you doing in my seat?? 3A and B are mine”.

“Erm, what do you mean? This is my seat...” John murmured, looking at his boarding card in confusion.

“I specifically requested that the seat next to me remain free.” eyes cut in, turning his back to John to thunder ominously at a man in his mid forties with greying hair. “Lestrade why is it that you cannot even understand my simplest commands? Clearly Mycroft was thinking with something other than his head when he recommended you.”

“Sherlock, the flight was full and you wanted to get out of London at such short notice. Be grateful I managed to get you in first class!” Lestrade argued, tone slightly annoyed as he ignored the jibe.

“That is no excuse!!! Explain to me why I hired you? Now I am stuck with some dim-wit who thinks he knows everything.”

“ Just deal with it. At least it’s a man and not a woman next to you.” Lestrade muttered, ignoring Sherlock’s words as if this conversation was a daily occurrence, and turned to give John an apologetic smile before stalking off to opposite side of the plane.

“Men have been known to pounce on me too…” Sherlock countered to no one in particular as he turned back to stare at John, scrutinising him; eyes roaming over his features, resting momentarily on his tattered sleeping top before refocusing on his face.

A ghost of a smiled flickered across the older man's lips. John found it oddly perturbing; it was as if the man had figured out some great secret about the doctor and found it greatly amusing.

He remedied his initial assumption, handsome creepy git! 

He was dumb stuck. He had no idea what was going on. Who was this Sherlock guy and how dare he assume he was going to pounce on him. Sure he tended to prefer men over women… most of the time, but this man-no stranger!-had no idea of knowing that and besides that didn’t mean he was going to go for just anyone! 

However before he could defend himself-not to mention wipe that glimmer of a smile of the mans face!-Charlotte Ming stepped in, putting her hand on Sherlock’s arm, miming a comforting gesture.

“Sir, I’m sorry for your discomfort. I know how horrible it must be for you to be stuck with people like him but rest assured I will make your flight as comfortable as possible.” Charlotte Ming crooned seductively.

John’s jaw dropped, forgetting his frustration at the man before him. This Charlotte Ming creature seemed to have forgotten that she had been dealing with his comfort only moments earlier. But now she was battering her eyelids at this Sherlock fellow and giving him a cold look. As if he-John Watson-was to blame for everything!

However Sherlock only seemed to eye her with annoyance and sniff. John watched as the older man shook the airhostesses hand off his arm- as if singed-and turned his attention back to the seat.

“I prefer the window so I will be taking that one” Sherlock trawled, now ignoring Charlotte Ming completely. “Try not to bother me. It is rather annoying to be stuck next to a commoner.” 

John couldn’t help the inner glee that burst through his insides as Charlotte Ming’s smile dropped and she sauntered off, unsure as to why he felt so ridiculously happy at her quick dismissal. However this momentary happiness was crushed as Sherlock’s words registered in his ears. 

He felt his anger boil and erupt. What was wrong with this fellow? Git! “Just who do you think you are!! I have no idea what you have been talking about over the last few minutes-men, women…commoner? The window seat is mine, the boarding card says so and if you don’t mind, I will be the only one sitting in my seat. I really don’t care who you are!” John snarled, finally finding his voice. 

He barged past Sherlock and with a determined huff plopped himself down on the window seat, busying himself with removing various medical journals from his bag. He purposely placed them on the seat next to him, hoping to annoy the man. His seat my foot!

From the corner of his eyes he noted a look of surprise cross Sherlock’s face and felt smug. Pompous handsome git! Deserved that! Probably used to getting what he wanted.

“Not that you could afford it.” Sherlock interjected John’s thoughts, stepping closer towards him “Judging by the manner in which you are dressed and the way you are holding your bag, possessively, suggests discomfort. Furthermore, you have been staring at the cabin in wonder and amazement, which brings me to deduce that this is your first time flying in first class and that someone else has paid for it.”

John watched awe struck as Sherlock stepped closer still and bent down; arms stretching out to rest and encircle the armrest, their faces inches apart. 

A ghost of a breath whispered across Johns skin as the older man purred in a deep baritone hush “So tell me Doctor John Watson. Which is it? Stanford or Berkley??”


	2. The Middle, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock have a proper conversation. Something about Sherlock's behaviour is odd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am floored by the Kudos and comments! Thank you! They are all so encouraging! hopefully you will all like the next few chapters. I have decided to make it into 4 part because there is so much that I want to explore between the two characters. This chapter is just setting the framework/grounwork for the other chapters. I just thought I would throw in a bit of proper conversation before the actual story takes over!
> 
> If stem cells are a touchy subject then please read this chapter at your own risk.
> 
> All comments are welcome!
> 
> Please note: I own nothing but my plot, everything else belongs to the BBC!

Part II : The middle, part I

 

How had he known his name? 

John sat frozen, paralysed not just by the intensity of the older man’s stare but also in astonishment, awed by the way in which he had been able to deduce everything. Even now, with his gaze pinned on him, Sherlock had an air of superiority about him that was almost edging on arrogance. 

Despite his obvious ill manners and commanding attitude, John couldn’t help but notice that this Sherlock fellow looked, upon even closer inspection, ridiculously more-inhumanly, he might add- handsome. The type of handsome that would have women chasing him and men feeling jealous…that is if they weren’t already lusting after him.

The older man was all long limbed with a slight frame that gave the impression of being skinny. However, the way his arm muscles tensed as he gripped the seat rest suggested otherwise; the man radiated pure dominance and strength. There was nothing “lanky” about him. 

He got the sense that Sherlock was not a man to be trifled with.

“Amazing.” John whispered, unsure as to whether he was referring to Sherlock’s deduction or his appearance. He was suddenly feeling, for lack of a better word, star-struck.

“Really?” Sherlock countered, eyes wide in genuine surprise, a ghost of a smile flickering across his lips. “That’s not what people normally say...but then again you aren’t like most people.” 

John licked his lips, unsure whether Sherlock was complementing or insulting him. “How did you do that? I have never seen anyone do that before. Are you some sort of detective?” 

There was a slight twitch in the older man’s lips. “No…nothing of that sort…” Sherlock’s voice sounded slightly strained and he gave him a weird look; eyes glimmering with an unfathomable emotion. “I am a man of many masks. Everything is a matter of simple observation, something that people with much lesser IQ lack!”

John cringed at the man’s harsh tone and the almost personal jibe but chose to ignore it, overwhelmed with curiosity. He wanted to know more about this strange man and his deductions.

“How did you do it though?” he persisted before suggesting, “Magic?” in light humor.

Sherlock’s eyes bored into John’s and he couldn’t suppress the shiver that crept up his spine. Perhaps it really was magic. He felt strangely vulnerable, bare and exposed … as if the man was trying to read his soul. However John refused to feel intimidated and stood his ground, despite the uneasy prickle at the back of his neck warning him otherwise. 

“No.” Sherlock said softly, eyes lingering on his searchingly before snapping back upwards into an upright position, fists bunched into his jacket pocket. “Your boarding card was lying on the seat, on top of your medical journal’s. Nothing difficult about that.” Sherlock sniffed, eyes briefly meeting his before reverting back to the seat next to John. 

The man was right; John looked to his left and indeed spotted his boarding card peeking out amongst the various medical journals. He felt his cheeks redden, chagrined by his own stupidity. Sherlock really hadn’t been lying when he said it was a matter of simple observation.

“Now my question. Which university is sponsoring this madness of a trip of yours?” 

John felt lost with the sudden twist their conversation was taking. He couldn’t keep up with this man. One moment he was thundering at him as if John were a fool and the next he was calm and collected. 

Annoying git!

His lips twitched slightly before he answered. “Stanford. I’m giving a lecture to their medical department on my research regarding Stem cell’s” he paused, before adding, “it’s sort of my area of expertise. Stem cells are…”

Sherlock cut in, cocking his head to the side as his eyes glimmered dangerously “…undifferentiated cells that can differentiate into specialized cells. Or in the more common tongue, cells that can develop into any cell type in the human body; human biology at it’s best.” he paused for effect, before rumbling on. “I recently read something about Dr. Katsuhiko Hayashi’s research at Kyoto University…something regarding a mouse germ cell in vitro developing into sperm and egg cells?” 

John felt his eyebrows shoot up, mouth going dry. He found himself unable to reply; he hadn’t been expecting this response. Just who was this man?

The older man continued, unfazed “Interesting line of research, however there are a lot of ethics involved. But the public really seemed to have lapped Dr.Hayashi’s work up. Those desperate to become mothers especially.” Tone indifferent, detached.

“Ah…Yes…ah that’s…ah… true but…ah… not immediately, not…ah anytime soon.” John replied weakly, still unable to form complete sentences. 

He wasn’t quite sure what to make of all of this. Was the older man a doctor or merely basking in his own intelligence?

“I’m sure there are a lot of questions that need to be answered before the findings can actually be applied to humans. There is still so much research to be done.” Sherlock concluded, looking smug. His eyes alight with mischief. 

Arrogant man!

John felt his nostrils flair, wanting to wipe the look off the man’s face. The bastard was showing off!! And doing a bloody good job at it. It was really starting to irritate him, what-not who- was this man? If he could even be called a man.

“Yes” John said firmly, trying to mask his irritation. Bloody know it all! “More work is necessary and in the future Dr. Hayashi and his team hope to understand what causes infertility. His research is just the beginning…tip of the ice berg…” John hesitated, smiling tightly as he added mockingly. “Don’t tell me you are a Doctor?”

Sherlock smiled broadly as if in on some personal joke, seemingly oblivious to the irritation he had sparked in his companion. “Like I said I am a man of many masks.”

“Right.”

“The name is Sherlock Holmes by the way.” The older man boasted as if his name were some sort of a gem to be treasured. However despite his confident tone there was an edge of tension in Sherlock’s voice. If John hadn’t been so close he would have missed the way the man’s eyes flickered nervously around the cabin, his posture unmistakably apprehensive. 

John found the whole thing odd. Why would anyone feel stressed saying his or her name? He brushed it aside, suddenly wanting to make light jest of their conversation. No point striking up an argument, especially with a man who you were stuck sitting next to for the next eleven hours and eight minutes (no matter how much of a handsome git they were).

“It’s a pleasure to meet you Sherlock Holmes, man of many masks.” 

Sherlock cocked his head to the side and peered up at John quizzically as if he were a puzzle. His stance visibly relaxing. 

Whatever had been making him tense was no longer an issue. 

John chuckled “I have to correct you though. I woke up a little late and so grabbed anything I could find… hence my odd attire.” 

“Ah close enough.” Sherlock smiled.

He felt the tension drain from their earlier conversation.

“And my name is Doctor John Hamish Watson. So you didn’t get it completely right.” 

“I guess not.” Sherlock laughed in amusement, a genuine rumble reverberating off his lips.

John stared at him. There was something ridiculously catching about Sherlock’s smile and jesting tone. This man was quite extraordinary, not just in appearance but also in intellect. He felt his heart skip a beat, his pulse quickening as his palms became sweaty. He tried telling himself it was nothing, just nerves of flying. But in that moment he knew that he was very much enraptured by the enigma that was Sherlock Holmes. 

The air crackled with electricity. This was going to be one interesting plane ride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The stem cell research I mention is actually being done by Kyoto University in Japan and the researcher/doctor very much does exist (Hayashi et al. 2012, all information is theirs). I find it all so fascinating.
> 
> If I get anything wrong please do ignore, it's difficult to simplify research and I tried my best! But if any of you are interested then please have a look at this link: http://www.nature.com/news/stem-cells-egg-engineers-1.13582 
> 
> I will try and update the chapters every 2-3 days but it's a bit of a struggle at the moment, what with juggling my own research work atm .But I promise to update in the span of the next two to three days!
> 
> Also in my head Sherlock is well versed in academic jargon because despite being an actor he likes to have an in depth understanding of every character he becomes. So perhaps or perhaps not he may have done a movie where he played a Doctor!


	3. The Middle, part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four hours into the flight and Sherlock's gentle touch sends shivers down John's spine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to thank the lovely Lily for being my lovely beta :]!
> 
> Please note: I own nothing but my plot, everything else belongs to the BBC!

Part III: The Middle, part II

 

The two men had been sitting in comfortable silence for the better part of 20 minutes. Sherlock was engrossed in some drama on his tv screen (a medical program of all things); eyes focused as his dextrous hand scribbled on a piece of paper. John had never seen the appeal of watching movies in general. The last time he watched a film had been several years ago. A new actor had made a big break in some big sci-fi movie and all his friends had been buzzing about it. Eventually, he gave in and watched the damn thing. The new actor was phenomenal but he found the plot a bit dull. After that boring experience John had vowed never to go to the cinema again, choosing to immerse himself in medical journals and rugby.

Ten more minutes of comfortable silence passed before the flight attendant (who so happened to be Charlotte Ming!) appeared. Despite his continued attempts for her attention she ignored him, intensely focused on his companion. Apparently the woman held some form of a personal vendetta against John and was now doing everything in her power to actively avoid his request.

John watched silently, albeit a bit horror-struck, as she practically threw herself at Sherlock, talking animatedly about some drama or film (he didn’t quite catch what) like a crazed fool. Sherlock didn’t seem to be helping much. The git had caught on about his lack of a drink and was now crooning back at the woman.He silently seethed. Just his dumb luck that Charlotte Ming be the one to serve (or not serve him) his drink and that he be stuck next to one pompous git who thought the world revolved around him.

John was starting to feel terribly annoyed. All he wanted was a tomato juice! He took deep breaths, forcing his hand to clench and unclench calmly as she finally detached herself and walked away. It would do him no good to lose his temper.

John grit his teeth. “You’re doing this on purpose aren’t you! You know you could just ask for the damn tomato juice for me.”

He felt a prick of anger, and something else. Perhaps jealousy.

Sherlock smiled wickedly, swirling his drink before he took a loud slurp. “I have no idea what you mean…it’s not my fault she keeps getting things for me.”

“You’re insufferable! I don’t even know what I’ve done!”

Sherlock smiled, “Perhaps it’s because you stole my seat.”

John’s lips twitched “Oh bloody hell! I did no such thing.”

Four hours into their eleven hour and eight minute flight to San Francisco and John and Sherlock had settled into comfortable, albeit frustrating, camaraderie. They exchanged pleasantries about random facts regarding their lives and John learnt that Sherlock travelled a lot. The older man had a particular taste for Afghani culture and food, even going so far as to show off a few choice words of Pashto (not that John understood any of it). However the man’s favourite place to live happened to be Scotland, a small town called Stonehaven; apparently the lifestyle was quiet there, without the bustle of a big city. John found that strange, Sherlock seemed the sort of man that needed crowds and noise, not silence.

The older man really was an enigma. 

John still had no idea what Sherlock did for a living nor did the man seem to want to divulge what it was. However, judging by his Ralph Lauren shirt, gold cufflinks and rolex watch, he was well off.

“The evidence speaks for itself.” Sherlock’s voice cut into John’s thoughts, leaning into his personal space “being that you are sitting down in a plane, in a seat that so happens to be my seat”.

John grumbled and shuffled his lecture notes, refusing to rise to the bait. He really wasn’t in a mood for a friendly argument. Right now all he wanted was his tomato juice so he could calm his rising nerves (not to mention to soothe his anger towards Charlotte Ming!). He raised his arm and pressed the “call button”, perhaps he would complain about the flight attendant.

In less than 48 hours he would be standing in a hall of professional’s of high academic standing, giving his very first lecture. To say that he was a shy man would be a lie, but he was terrified of public speaking; he had never been particularly good at it. He inwardly winced remembering one particularly unforgettable presentation during med school.

Perhaps he should have taken Mary’s advice and practiced with her, but things were currently tense between them. He really hadn’t fancied a confrontation regarding their “friends-with-benefits” thing. Whatever that was. To him it was just a quick fuck, no strings attached.

“I can practically hear you thinking.” Sherlock interjected once more, reaching out to grab the lecture notes, fingers briefly brushing his wrist. 

John felt his stomach cramp, his mind buzzing with electricity.

“You are ignoring me. What could possibly be more interesting than me?” tone arrogant.

Nothing. John thought absently, momentarily frozen by his own admission, before his notes were roughly yanked from his hand.

“Let’s have a look.” Sherlock said, eyes scanning the pages.

“You know. The world doesn’t revolve around you! You are impossible.” he countered, voice lacking all bite as his mind still reeled from Sherlock’s gentle touch.

“ I’ve been told otherwise.”

“In which reality Sherlock?” John probed, a sigh of irritation leaving his lips as he rubbed the back of his neck, trying to erase the feel of Sherlock’s fingers.

The older man’s lips twitched, eyes darkening as they flickered to meet John’s. “Mine, obviously,” he muttered, voice low and serious.

“Right.” The git was full of himself! “If that’s true then I’m a millionaire related to the royal family.” John added sarcastically.

The man really had a big head.

“While I don’t doubt that you will eventually have an abundance of money-what with your stem cell research and stellar academic prowess-you are in no way related to the royal family. You may have dreamed at one point of marrying a princess...” Sherlock droned, an edge of humour to his voice “...but don’t be ridiculous and do try and live in the real world John. Living in a make believe fantasy world doesn’t do anyone any good.”

John’s eyebrows shot up. The nerve of the man! He was clearly mad! But it was true, he had dreamed of marrying a princess. How had he known?

Sherlock thundered on, completely oblivious or more ignoring-which was more likely the case-his companion’s anger. “You have been looking at these notes for the last hour. This all seems pretty straightforward to me unless you have stage fright.”

The older man peered at John, scrutinizing him intently before his eyes grew soft with understanding. “You’re terrified of speaking in front of others.” 

John frowned and stared at him in silence, once again struck by the man’s brilliance. 

He drew in a deep breath of air, clenching and unclenching his fists. “Define terrified.”

“Fine. Not terrified. Anxious? Nervous? Scared? Take your pick of word. It won’t change the facts.”

He nodded and glanced out the window, shoulders suddenly slumped. “Yes” he finally ventured “I’m not really a good public speaker. I’m not a huge fan of all the attention.”

Sherlock tilted his head; voice oddly gentle “There is nothing wrong with being afraid of attention. Everyone is. It’s how you handle it that’s important” he paused, gripping John’s arm; eyes ablaze with emotion. “Attention can be overwhelming sometimes. It’s important to not lose your cool. It’s important to remember that you are the one in charge, not them. Don’t let on that you are scared.”

John turned to stare at him, shivers coursing up his spine at the intimate touch. The older man looked strangely vulnerable, childlike, as if he-and not John-was the one who was terrified of attention. He couldn’t help but feel that there was a deeper meaning to Sherlock’s words. If only he could figure the man out!

Sherlock licked his lips and leaned in towards him, his voice deceptively low “Let’s practice. Pretend I am your audience.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this fic is progressing a little slower than I anticipated but there is just so much going on in that plane between Sherlock and John. Keep posted for more! Hopefully you will enjoy the update :]
> 
> Stonehaven is a lovely little place close to Aberdeen and not that far from Edinburgh (Scotland, UK). They serve a lovely deep fried mars bar and fish and chips! So if you ever find yourself in the UK or are from the UK go have a little poke about the town. It is so lovely! Also Sherlock was the actor that John had seen in the sci-fi movie! Just because this is my world and anything is possible!
> 
> On a different note you all should try and read "The bone season" by Samantha Shannon. It is a lovely little read and has so many feels! She is being compared to the next J.K.Rowling. While I doubt that anyone is comparable to her, Samantha Shannon does have something. I wouldn't be surprised if the book is a huge hit!


	4. Part III: The almost End. Almost but not quite.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tries to help John but learn's something quite shocking about the young doctor's past.
> 
> And just because I am a tease: "A tongue delved deep into his mouth enticing a groan which was devoured by the older man in a fit of aggressive passion."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay dear reader's! 
> 
> WARNING: If abuse (physical abuse, child abuse...any kind of abuse.) is a trigger for any of you then please read the following chapter at your own risk.
> 
> Please note: I own nothing but my plot, everything else belongs to the BBC!
> 
> Thank's again to the one and only Lily for being my amazing beta!

**Part III: The almost End. Almost but not quite.**

****  
  


John’s head was pounding; heartbeat thundering; breathing slightly laboured and hands clammy with sweat. Damn that memory! He clenched and unclenched his fist in a bid to calm his nerves; anything to stop that childhood memory from taking control of him.

 

It was safe to say that in this moment he did not like Sherlock Holmes.

 

“No! No! No!  Not like that. It has to come from within you. Honestly anyone listening to you drone on about _in vitro_ would think you were an imbecile.” The man in question roared, oblivious to John’s plight as he pounded his fist dramatically against his arm-rest; eyes ablaze with emotion.

 

John should have known better; that things with Sherlock Holmes were never simple. He should have never accepted his help; it was useless. They had been locked in an intense conversation (argument) for the last 30 minutes and instead of Sherlock helping him he seemed to be making things worse. John’s speech, which earlier had some degree of coherence to it, was now incomprehensible.

 

John clenched his fist and grit his teeth, a sense of calm briefly taking hold of his mind. Stupid git! “God damn it! I am trying! Can’t you see!”

 

“There is nothing to _see_ …you need to feel each word.” Sherlock said emotionlessly, eyes fixed intently on John’s. “I am doing this for your benefit. I don’t get a kick out of seeing you struggle.”

 

John grumbled, crossing his hands over his chest like a child. He knew, after having sat next to the git for the better part of 5 hours, that the older man would not relent till he had his way.

 

He sighed and took a deep breath to steady his emotions and mentally prayed, hoped almost, that the memory would relinquish its control on him. _Once more_ , he thought, _just let me try this… once more. Please let it be okay. Please. Please._

“Good evening ladies and gentlemen. I am Dr. John Watson from University College London. I am here to talk about a very important matter concerning stem cells. As you are all well aware, stem cells have allowed us to gain not only a better understanding but also insight into the human body. This in turn has broadened our ability-not just in research but in medicine-to help the human population.” he paused, looking at Sherlock for reassurance before continuing. “I work within a special branch and our work... has…helped…umm…no…created…similar…smaller version…of the brain.” John finished lamely, stammering slightly as he lost his train of thought; cheeks tinged red.

 

Flashes of a man standing above him; hand raised with ruler clasped within fingers threatened to take him. The memory of wood against tender flesh reverberated through his body.

 

He winced.

 

It was useless.

 

“Your problem is that you think too much.” Sherlock said matter of factly, failing to notice his companion’s state. “Stop thinking and allow your thoughts to manifest themselves naturally, through your voice. It’s all on the tip of your tongue. I can see it.”

 

John’s shoulders slumped, winded from the power that the memory held. “Well that’s easier said than done.”

 

The memory was now on the edge of his consciousness; desperate to draw him into it’s deadly abyss. He closed his eyes fighting the images, eyes prickling with tears as he pictured a young boy-himself- hunched in a small ball, trying to shield his body from the cruel welts of a ruler.

 

This was a joke, this whole trip was a joke.

 

He was a joke.

 

“I can’t do it.” John whispered to himself, a sad smile pressed against his lip’s. “It’s impossible.”

 

“You must try harder though!” Sherlock scoffed, hand shooting out and latching onto John’s, shaking it violently, willing his companion to see sense. Indifferent to his distress. “Never say you’re no good.”

 

John made a negative motion with his hand. He had worked so hard to get where he was, slogging his guts out not only academically but behind the bar, at the local pub to earn extra cash. Now, because of his inability to speak publicly, he would lose what little academic standing he had.  He shouldn’t have agreed to go to Stanford.

 

He could have sent someone else.

 

He should have.

 

John’s tumultuous childhood had robbed him of any ability to stand up in front of a crowd. It was always with difficulty that he managed to conduct any commentary in the public eye (hence that horrible presentation during med school). His abusive past would not, willingly, allow him to utter a word out of order; mind trapped, remembering the painful beatings from his stepfather. As a result, according to his therapist, he had conditioned himself to hold his tongue when speaking in front of others. Interacting with friends was one thing but presentations were another; where a loud voice was needed.

 

He felt humiliated. Mortified that his stepfather still had such a strong hold over him.

 

John curled his fist in frustration, overcome with emotion. Damn Moriarty. And damn Sherlock Holmes for making him speak.

 

“John.” Sherlock whispered, interjecting his thoughts and making his stomach cramp, fingers trailing absently across his naked wrist in an intimately soothing manner. It was as if the older man had finally latched onto John’s distress and could read the delicate nature of his thoughts. “Come on John. Don’t do this. Don’t think.”

 

John felt the cryptic nature of his companion’s word’s and couldn’t help the inappropriate giggle that burst through his lips.

 

Sherlock Holmes could give his therapist a run for her money. The git had probably deduced everything.

 

“Who was it. Your father? Mother” the older man said softly, too softly, an edge of underlying anger buried beneath the gentle tone.

 

John had been right. He had guessed.

 

He closed his eyes and clenched his fist. “Stepfather.” he said bitterly, taking a deep breath to ease his troubled mind. “He didn’t like it when I spoke out. He hated it. So he would beat me to silence me.” Another giggle burst through his lips before he could suppress it.   _Oh how he hated Moriarty. He was glad the man was dead_. “It worked.” He added bitterly.

 

John found the hypnotic motion of Sherlock’s finger’s oddly calming. It was something to focus on, to ease his mind from the pain. A gentle tug brought them closer; his head resting against the older man’s shoulder.

 

They remained like that for a while, the silence a welcome contrast to his raging mind.

 

“Focus on me. Only me.” Sherlock whispered some moments later, cutting through the crisp silence, cupping John’s face in his hands; fingers boldly caressing his companion’s cheekbones; lips brushing gently against the smaller man’s ear; tongue flitting out. “Don’t think like that. He was a mad man. Focus. Focus on me. Breathe.”

 

John did just that, reveling in the strength behind the older man’s gentle touch; breathing him in. _Yes. Focus. On him. Just him. Focus._

 

“Just me. Only me.” Sherlock growled softly, a hidden strength behind his words.

And then he felt their lips meet; briefly, tentatively at first. Then harder, as an edge of desperate passion crept in, engulfing them. A tongue delved deep into his mouth enticing a groan which was devoured by the older man in a fit of aggressive passion; their mouths continuing to wreak havoc against one another. Nipping and biting with their teeth, marking one another. He felt the beginnings of an arousal against his trouser leg.

 

 _Yes. Only Sherlock. Just him. Just him._ John thought absently as he threaded his fingers through the man’s curl’s, willing him closer. To hell with the rest of the passengers on the plane (but he was grateful that the lights of the cabin had been turned off).

 

The kiss seemed to last minute’s when in reality it must have only been seconds. All too soon he felt Sherlock pull away, hand going up to briefly cup his cheek before moving back, creating distance. His face a cool mask, devoid of emotion, as he turned from John.

 

If it hadn’t been for the slight tremble in the older man’s hand, John would have thought Sherlock to be unaffected.

 

Now he was confused.

 

What had just happened?

***************

Sherlock had refused to talk to John after the kiss, closing himself off. As a result, for the past hour, John’s mind-though no longer focusing on Moriarty-was now wracked with confusion. How dare that insufferable man kiss him? He absently fingered his lips, remembering the way their mouths had molded together; the raw passion hidden amidst their intimate touches.

 

Why had he kissed him?

 

John sat dazed, confused as to how their conversation had changed so rapidly from stem cells to his stepfather to kissing. Had he accidentally fallen asleep and woken up in an alternate dimension? Had he hit his head?

 

He silently watched his now sleeping companion’s frame, mind abuzz with questions. It would be so easy to lean across the distance and poke him. However he got the sense that the older man rarely slept and so thought against it.

“You know. He isn’t that bad.” A familiar voice interjected his thoughts. John looked up and spied the man called Lestrade looking down on him, shirt rolled up and un-tucked, a carefree expression on his face. “He grows on you.” Lestrade smiled, all teeth, as he extended his arm. “I’m Gregory Lestrade…a…ah…friend of sorts of Sherlock.”

 

John decided he immediately liked the man. There was something in his composure that drew him towards the man. It might have something to do with the way he was so carelessly dressed-so unlike the sleeping git next to him.

 

He extended his arm and smiled in response. “John Watson. And here I thought all men-or at least friend’s of Sherlock- could deduce my name by a simple look.”

 

Lestrade laughed a genuine laugh, eyes sparkling with mirth. “Ah if only there were more Sherlock Holmes in the world. Actually wait. Hold that thought. It’s better there is only one. Man causes trouble everywhere he goes.”

 

“I can imagine.”

Lestrade cocked his head to the side, watching him intently. John couldn’t help but shiver, something in his countenance reminding him of Sherlock when they had first met. “You have no idea. The man attracts too much attention.”

 

He smiled and scoffed. “Really? Please enlighten me.”

 

“His face for one thing…inhumanly attractive…Drive’s everyone crazy, get’s to his head too. You must have noticed. I’m a straight man and even I know an attractive face when I see one.”

 

“Really?” John mocked playfully, heartbeat deceptively thundering in his ears.

 

“You really have no idea do you?”

 

“Idea about what? That I am sitting next to a handsome git who thinks the entire world revolves around him?”

 

“Haha! Ah. Now I understand why he hasn’t kicked up a fuss.” Lestrade paused, folding his arms across his chest. “I’m intrigued John. Has Sherlock told you anything about himself?

 

John frowned and licked his lips. “No…something that involves a lot of travelling.” He sniffed, before adding. “…and earning a lot of money.

 

Lestrade’s eyebrows shot up, a ghost of a smile whispering across his lips.

 

“I thought he was either a doctor or a detective.” John added, absently rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment. “Clearly I was wrong.”

“Ah! No wonder he hasn’t come, even once, to complain to me! I was beginning to wonder what had happened to him.” Lestrade gestured to Sherlock’s sleeping form. “I can’t believe he is asleep. Of all things! Hah! He normally pesters me till we exchange seats or gets the poor sod seated next to him to move.” He paused, eyeing John before adding “I won’t spoil the fun and tell you what it is that the man does but… he is very well known. Very very well known. Some would call him famous.” in a jesting tone, an underlying edge of seriousness to it.

 

John’s eyebrows shot up, mouth going dry. He hadn’t been expecting this response. _Was Sherlock Holmes famous? A celebrity? It would explain his odd demeanor and air of superiority, not to mention toned and well kept physique. It might also explain that one air steward's rude countenance and how the git knew so much about everything. But…was he? No! No! Could he?_

Before John could bring himself to voice the torrent of thoughts currently flooding his brain Lestrade leaned forward, arm precariously balanced on Sherlock’s seat-rest, eyes ablaze with sudden malice. “If you hurt him. I will ruin you.” voice deadly, eyes lingering on his for a fraction of a second before a genuine smile broke out; camaraderie evident. “Safe flight.”

 

John shivered watching the man walk away, hands in his pocket. What the bloody hell?? Had he seriously walked into an alternate dimension where handsome assholes kissed him and their intimidating friends threatened to ruin his career?

 

He must be asleep. He had to be.

 

It was all so absurd! Not to mention the possibility of Sherlock being famous. However, now pondering back to his mad rush at the airport his stomach sank, remembering the woman at check-in’s words “Some celebrity”. He turned to stare at Sherlock trying to deduce, by his appearance alone, whether he was that man in question. He wouldn’t put it past himself to not have noticed, considering how he was a complete ignoramus when it came to that area. He knew nothing about _those_ people or their high lifestyle.

 

Something from the corner of his eye captured his attention and he turned, spying a small notebook with the symbol “S.H.” embroidered in gold.

 

His heartbeat thundered, roaring wildly in his ears, hands clammy with sweat.

 

The screams at the airport had been “S.H! S.H.!”

 

S.H. for Sherlock Holmes.  
  


Oh bugger.

  
The man was indeed very very famous.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me a while to write this chapter mainly because I was confused about the direction it was heading in (plus research became a bit hectic...meh!). I have everything regarding the story now figured out!!
> 
> I know quite shocking about John's childhood-ha! I had to sneak Moriarty in there somehow!-but it just seemed to fit into the whole storyline (or at least I hope it does...). I needed a proper reason for why John, despite being a distinguished researcher/doctor, in the field of stem cells, got stage fright and so came up with this theory-or more my finger's typed whatever my brain was spinning out!
> 
> In case any of you are interested in my Doctor Watson's research then I would suggest you check out the following link (http://www.telegraph.co.uk/science/science-news/10272066/Mini-brain-made-from-stem-cells.html). Also that celebrity nonsense will fit in perfectly too...I am quite excited for the final two chapter's!!
> 
> I hope you all like the slightly longer chapter! WOOO!! My dear Doctor has finally put two and two together, with the little help of Lestrade. I wonder what Sherlock will be in store for once he wakes up?
> 
> On a slightly off topic, you all should read Jane Austen novels. For they are the best. I recently re-read pride and prejudice and oh how I wish Darcy existed!!!

**Author's Note:**

> The International conference on Stem Cells and Regenerative medicine actually does exist and was held this year!
> 
> This story is sort of my own personal fantasy. I always wondered how lovely it would be to bump into a celebrity on a plane ride and then be stuck next to them for the whole duration of it (okay yes poor celebrity but yay me!). I just sort of let my imagination run wild and before I knew it I had ended up with a Sherlock and John AU story. There really aren't that many celebrity stories incorporating the characters of John and Sherlock. So I also just wanted to satisfy my inner yearnings for this pairing in this type of AU world!
> 
> For the purpose of this story there is an age gap and this age gap is about 13 years. Sherlock is 39 while John is 26.


End file.
